


Time Goes Quicker

by gaygreekgladiator (ama)



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/F, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:16:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/gaygreekgladiator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If we wish to talk of overworked women, I would direct attention to you. Without your assistance, I would be leagues below the sea right now—by my own will, if not pitched over by furious crew.”</p><p>Laeta is the captain of a boat of refugees from the war; Kore is her invaluable right-hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Goes Quicker

They have been on the seas for months now. Laeta has regained her instinct for command, and then some—where once her voice was soft, tempered by her husband, now it rings out like the clamor of brass bells over the deck. There are some who yet chafe under command of a woman, but their shouts became mutters, mutters whispers, whispers silence. Silence is all they dare; Kore hears everything.

Sibyl has grown heavy with child, and one night Laeta firmly insists that the girl take her own cabin. She cannot possibly be comfortable in the tents, pitched on deck, in which most of the passengers sleep, and Laeta can’t imagine that it is good for the babe, either. Kore is the only other with her own cabin—shared with no others, unless there is someone who needs nursing or her gentle care. The former slave offers to share space with Laeta, but on this first night, Laeta declines. She will take Sibyl’s tent. She doesn’t like to be so distant from her people.

She does not expect the mere act of sleeping on deck to be so difficult, though. First, she must speak with nearly every person on board, who crowd around her eagerly. It is then that she realizes that, while she knows all her fellow refugees, their hurts and their talents, and gives them orders near daily, she does not often interact with many of them. She has more tasks than any: overseeing the order of the ship, plotting their routes, pulling gold out of thin air to keep them alive. This consumes much of her time. The rest is spent behind closed doors, soothing headaches and indulging in quiet moments in the company of Kore and Sibyl. _That must change_ , she thinks to herself.

Then, of course, there is the challenge of properly setting up her tent. She has never really improved at this. After a few minutes of bitten-off curses, some of her people take pity on her and offer assistance, for which she is grateful. She hopes that this will endear her to them, so that they will begin to consider her more of a captain and less of a goddess; but finally, she is bombarded with offers of food and drink, gifts, company.

She wonders grimly if Juno feels so overwhelmed, and vows never to leave another offering for any god. The offering of peace, she thinks, will be enough.

Laeta retires to her tent after a long evening, her eyes already heavy with sleep. She has taken to wearing long tunics, still in the style of the Romans, with trousers underneath them, and she gladly strips off her boots, her trousers, the roughhewn jewelry she wears now. Before she can lie down, however, there is a rustle at the entrance.

“Laeta?” Kore says. The tone of her voice is soft, sweet, and familiar, and Laeta turns. She does not need to smile in Kore’s presence—the woman can always tell whether she is truly angry or simply tired—but one springs to lips anyway. Kore smiles in return, and lets the curtain close behind her. “I thought I might join you.”

“As body slave watches over domina in sleep?” Laeta says, a bitter twist to her words. “Or vestal virgin guards the fire?”

“As any woman joins trusted friend, with affection in heart,” Kore corrects her. To any other, she would sound perfectly calm, but Laeta knows her well, and she can hear the edge of warning in her voice. She sighs.

“Apologies—it has been a tiring day.”

She lies down, and Kore joins her, her hand alighting on the top of Laeta’s arm soothingly.

“You take on too much.”

“I take on enough. Besides,” she adds with a teasing smile. “If we wish to talk of overworked women, I would direct attention to _you_. Without your assistance, I would be leagues below the sea right now—by my own will, if not pitched over by furious crew.”

“You are beloved by all,” Kore says idly, her lashes lowered. “I doubt they would cast you into the sea.”

Laeta smiles to herself. The tent is dark but for the light of the moon, but she can make out Kore’s face clearly. Laeta wonders if this is the moment she should lean over and kiss her. She has been waiting for the moment for days now, but it is slow to come. Her gaze lingers on Kore’s lips for a moment, but the hours weigh heavy on her, and she falls too soon to slumber.

-

She sleeps. And then she wakes.

There are heavy footsteps and then a loud thump, and suddenly there are knees pinning her thighs. She wakes with a gasp and looks up into the face of a man who looks monstrous in the night—familiar or not, she does not know. She reaches out automatically, the heel of her hand connecting with his face before she even sees the knife in his hand. It does not knock him aside, but the blankets whirl with movement.

The air is torn by noises of anger, of exertion, and Laeta realizes with a jolt of shock that the knife is in Kore’s hand now—and now the blade is buried in the man’s neck, and sending an arc of blood splattering onto the tent walls, and then the body is falling and still the knife shines.

“Kore,” she says, have a breath and half a scream, when she can form words. Then she sees a black line on Kore’s forearm, and her heart leaps to her throat. “You are injured.”

Kore looks down at her arm mutely. Before she can speak, there is the pounding of feet, and the opening of the tent is torn aside so violently that the entire thing collapses. Together, Laeta and Kore manage to free themselves, stumbling over the corpse, and emerge into a crowd of anxious people. Laeta ignores their questions for a moment. She tears a strip of cloth from her tunic, and presses it firmly against Kore’s arm.

“Magistra,” Sicounen says in her grave voice, and Laeta sees that she is looking at the body. Laeta follows her gaze. The would-be assassin was born within Rome, a rough man from the fields. He is one of those who once believed that his strength entitles him to special food, wine, and women. She has taught him differently.

The soldiers, the harbor dwellers, the pirates—all carry suspicions and beliefs that Laeta is only now becoming accustomed to. Death on board is a terrible omen.

“Cast the body overboard,” she says crisply. “And fetch me needle, thread, and vinegar.”

“Bread and wine, too,” Sicounen nods. Laeta looks down and sees that her hands are shaking.

“Yes.” She looks at the surrounding crowd, and is relieved to note that at least half of the people on the deck remain abed. “This will be little spoken of,” she says, her voice louder. “A week’s half-rations for the poor fool who thinks to wake Sibyl.”

Heads duck in deference, and she turns to Kore.

“Are you wounded?” Kore asks, her voice urgent.

“Blade did not touch skin,” Laeta reassures her. “And do not dare to mother me when blood yet flows from arm.”

“The wound is shallow,” Kore says, although Laeta has doubts about that, and presses the fabric harder.

Sicounen returns with the necessary items. Both Laeta and Kore drink from the wineskin, and then Kore takes small, slow bites of the bread as Laeta takes to task. Her stitches are neat and precise, and Kore hardly makes a sound. Sicounen places a vial of cleansing oil at Laeta’s side, and returns to her own tent.

“Sibyl must know,” Kore says quietly. Laeta keeps her head bowed over her work.

“Not tonight,” she said firmly.

“But it is a small ship. Better for her to hear the tale now, than distorted by rumor.”

Neatly, Laeta ties the thread. She pauses for a moment to inspect Kore’s wound—she had seen at first glance that it was deeper than Kore had expressed, but she doubts there will be any complications with healing, as long as the woman is careful. She looks up, and nods.

“You will tell her that you saw the man heading for my cabin earlier, before he learned of my presence on deck. In fact, if Sibyl had been in her tent and I in my room, I would be dead, for you would not be here with me.”

“Yes.” Kore takes a deep breath. “I knew him to be dissatisfied. Not to this extent.”

“We will discuss it in the morning.”

Kore stands. She wobbles slightly from the loss of blood, and immediately Laeta stands to offer aid.

“To my cabin,” Kore says firmly. Laeta does not think to object. She picks up the remainder of the bread, the wine, and the oil, and together they make the slow procession below deck.

Laeta directs Kore to sit on the bed, and then sits beside her. Carefully, she uncorks the oil and pours some over Kore’s hands. She avoids the wound on her arm, but methodically washes the blood (hers and the assassin’s) from her hands and the uninjured forearm. Then, on a whim, she leans down, Kore’s hands resting gently in her lap, and presses lingering kisses to her knuckles.

“Do you devote me to a goddess?” Kore asks, laughingly.

“Yes,” Laeta says. Her voice trembles with tears that she refuses to shed, and she looks up with a weak smile. “To myself.”

“I thought the name of Domina was an unwelcome one,” Kore teases. Her smile is the most beautiful thing Laeta has ever seen—the first curve of the orange sun rising above the ocean, and the last silver slice of the moon.

“I would rival Juno herself for her throne,” she says. “If, by doing so, I could keep you by my side and in my arms.”

Wonderment spreads across Kore’s face. Laeta thinks, _now_ , but time seems to have slowed. She leans forward and kisses Kore’s forehead. The other woman’s eyes fall closed, and Laeta kisses each eyelid. She rests their foreheads together and sighs. Their breath mingles, their lips hover mere inches apart. For a moment time stops.

Then Kore tilts her head ever so slightly. Their lips touch, and without permission their bodies meet, hands finding waists, necks, shoulders, hair. Every moment is slow—deliberate without deliberation, sure without surety. The gods have forged them to fit each other. Laeta pulls away when her head starts to spin from pure elation, and they remain still in each other’s arms.

“Do not fight Juno,” Kore murmurs. “I hear her temper is fierce.”

“As is mine. But yours, dear heart, is the fiercest of all,” she says with a smile, smoothing Kore’s hair. “A fact I rely on for coming battle.”

Kore laughs and rests her head against Laeta’s shoulder. They sit peacefully, listening to waves lapping at the sides off the boat. Other than that, the only sound is the slow, easy rhythm of hearts in synch.


End file.
